Old Ashford escorted Rose Jennings out toward the academy gates. The night air of Riverport was heavy, carrying the distant, muffled roar of the city’s late-night traffic. As they walked, Rose couldn’t suppress her curiosity. She kept glancing back at the red-brick tenement, her mind racing.
“Mister,” she asked, tilting her head toward the garden where several toddlers were still playing tag under the floodlights. “Is this actually a preschool?”
During their short walk from the apartment, she had seen dozens of children, all around Blanche’s age, scurrying about. It looked like any other kindergarten, but the timing was bizarre. What kind of school operated at 10:00 PM on a weekday? Didn't these children have homes to go to?
Old Ashford chuckled, his footsteps steady on the cobblestone
